I married the love of my life exactly one month ago after seven years together. But I’m finding myself dragging my feet on changing my name. We are both liberal, but his family is very conservative, so he has traditional roots. I’m barely making it through this election year without strangling my in-laws, who gave us a hardback copy of Hillary’s America: The Secret History of the Democratic Party as a wedding gift (but that’s a story for another column). As a badass bitch and feminist, how did you know what will work best for you? Am I selfish or lazy to not be thrilled about changing my IDs, passport, credit cards, social media, Gmail address, et cetera? Will it be tough on our kids? I really don’t want to hyphenate. Please help! Final note: I’m thinking about buying a URL to build a professional website for myself, and my maiden name is available but my married name is not. Ugh!

An L.A. Woman

Dear L.A. Woman,

Congratulations on marrying the love of your life. How many people in the world actually get to write those words?

It sounds like you don’t want to change your name. So don’t change your name. The decision is yours alone to make. Your name + your life = your decision. If you’re concerned about your husband’s reaction, you might want to consider telling him with a third party in the room, preferably one that has some mediating experience (read: couples therapist). Or just try a script along these lines: “Babe, I love you so much. The fact that we’re married is so mind-blowing and amazing. I can’t get over it. However, it just doesn’t feel right for me to take your last name. It’s really important—professionally and personally—that I keep the last name I was born with. To honor my career, my parents, my family of origin, and my history, blah, blah, blah. This decision is not at all a reflection of my commitment to you; my entire heart and soul are 100 percent invested in us building a beautiful future together. But I need to do it with my last name. I hope you can understand.” Then have sex and be done with it.

It’s a different story when you’re talking about your future children’s names; that is a decision the two of you should make together when the time comes. And you have options. A lot of them. Option 1: Your kids have hyphenated names. Option 2: If you have more than two kids, then one can take his last name and one can take your last name. Option 3: You and your husband create a legally binding new last name together (my best friend did this). Yes, changing your name is a total pain. I remember trudging down to City Hall the week after my wedding with a folder full of paperwork, then sitting at my desk that afternoon and making a new Gmail account, forwarding the old one, et cetera. It was probably four hours’ worth of absolutely unsexy, annoying administration. Pain in the ass? Yes. An insurmountable undertaking? No. Far from it. But we both know that’s not the issue.

Let’s talk about your in-laws. You say it’s a story for another column; methinks not. I think that’s the whole story, in fact. It sounds like you’re deeply afraid of their disapproval. Afraid that you don’t share any of their core values—politically, emotionally, spiritually—that the person you are and the person you want to become is at odds with the person they want you to be. Most of all, it sounds like you’re scared of having to sit with your own feelings, if you decide to keep your name. Scared of standing your ground, even it means feeling a little sad and bad aboutit—feeling like you’re not the woman your in-laws wished their son married.

So what if your mother-in-law thinks you’re a radical women’s libber with woolly armpits chanting “fuck the man” in front of a pyre of burning brassieres? Her reaction is not your problem. In fact, what she thinks is none of your business. Your business is your business. Your life is your business. What you believe is your business. Your husband fell in love with you because of these very things—your life and your beliefs. Because you are you: A badass bitch and feminist with a razor-sharp sense of what’s right, and wrong, for you. Not because you’re a people-pleasing, docile, lamblike carbon copy of the woman who raised him.

I can’t emphasize how important it is in the beginning of your marriage to do things your own way immediately, regardless of what your family thinks. Even stuff as insignificant as whether or not to serve champagne or rosé during the reception. All the low-variant decisions have high-variant consequences; if your in-laws see you second-guessing yourself due to their opinions, they will insert themselves at every future opportunity. And your future is about you and your husband—not you and them.

When we get married, we get a chance to begin again. Fresh start, fresh story. We carve a new path with our life partner by making new choices. Together you unpack years of psychological damage, examine your wounds, and vow to do it differently. To create a home together where you can thrive together and apart.

When I was pregnant with my first child, both my parents and in-laws asked that we call them the second I had my first contraction. Both sets live out of town, and they wanted to come to town while I was in labor, so they could meet their grandchild right away. Just the thought of it sent a cold chill through my cervix. I love my parents and my in-laws deeply, but the idea of them knowing I was actively having my baby—while I was actively having my baby—stressed the bejesus out of me. If I can sense, even slightly, that someone in my vicinity is expecting something from me, it’s almost impossible to focus on taking care of my own needs. In this case, my new family: my husband, my baby, and me. So we sent a very kind but firm email to my parents and in-laws asking them to please allow us to have two weeks of time alone in our home to get to know our baby — before they came to visit. It worked.

It’s your life, L.A. Woman. You’ve got one chance to live it the way you want to. Set those boundaries, and set them now. Build your home, then triple-check that you’ve hand-set every brick in just the right place. Erect a fence around it of galvanized steel, wrapped in barbed wire charged with mega-voltage electrical currents. Then get a wild dog to guard the door while you go inside and get cozy. Light a fire. Run a bath. Make a meal. Your job is to keep that house safe. Keep it warm. Keep your name.